The Storyspinner (12 page)

Chapter 33

Pira

Whoever made the dart had done an excellent job disguising their identity. It had been poured into a mold and sharpened to its wicked point by a right-handed metalsmith. That much Pira could tell.

It narrowed down the field, but, she couldn’t determine the basic metal composition without more research.

Donning a hood, she left the inn without drawing any attention. Leão had been deep in conversation with the barmaid who was trying to seduce him. Pira stifled a laugh at the thought. Proper Leão, grandson of the head of the Mage Council, wouldn’t lay a hand on the girl.

But that didn’t mean the trollop wouldn’t put her hands on Leão. Pira’s feet ground to a halt, and she almost turned back to rescue him from an inappropriate education.

Who are you to decide what he should and should not learn? You have no hold on him.

Pira shook away the thought and hurried toward the blacksmith’s shop she’d seen as they’d entered the township. Jacaré had issued a command, and she intended to follow it. Even though he wouldn’t necessarily condone her methods.

The shop was long closed, so Pira picked the lock on the door in less than three seconds. It swung open on silent hinges.

Horrible locksmith, decent hinge maker.

The front of the store featured a selection of daggers—likely the smith’s showpieces—and some more mundane items. Buckets of hoes, scythes, and pitchforks lined the area behind the counter and divided the room into two spaces. She crossed into the workshop and crinkled her nose against the smell of metal filings and the stink of man sweat.

The forge was cold, but the smith had banked coals in a small brazier near the rear wall. She tossed them into the hole, squirted a little fire starter over them to encourage the blaze and pumped the bellows a few times.

Flames licked the air, and Pira leaned over the stones that lined the lip of the forge, letting the heat wash over her. She wasn’t cold, no one could be in the blasted humidity, but the fire warmed her like a welcome embrace. Pira wasn’t at home anywhere like she was at the forge.

Pira’s gift was slightly more specialized than other Earth affinities because she was specifically attuned to metal. She could sense the location of ore and minerals. No one would ever be able to stab Pira in the back.

If she hadn’t succeeded in becoming a member of the Keepers’ Elite Guard, she would have apprenticed with a weaponsmith and spent her time honing steel instead of using it.

The metalsmith who owned this shop was organized and neat. His tools were pegged along a side wall, grouped by type and size, and a selection of leather aprons hung by the shop’s rear door.

She dropped the dart inside a heavy cast-iron bowl, sure to withstand the heat, and selected a pair of tongs. The bowl began to glow as red as the coals around it, but the dart looked unchanged. Pira donned one of the smith’s heavy gloves and used the tongs to rotate it a few times.

Nothing.

Frustrated, she threw more coals into the pit and pumped the bellows until sweat dampened her shirt. She swept an arm across her forehead and pushed back her hood to let her head breathe.

Pira leaned across the pit’s mouth, her skin tightening at the heat, and checked the dart. Still no visible change, but the
feel
of the metal was different. She rolled the dart with the tongs and realized why she hadn’t been able to sense the type of metal. It was dual layered. The inside was copper, but it had been coated with something unfamiliar.

Then the air shifted, a slight disturbance in the vibration of the metal around her. Spinning, she raised the tongs in time to stop the hammer that had been aimed at her head.

The tongs crunched, bending sideways, and the blow sent a painful tremor up through Pira’s shoulder.

Her attacker—likely the blacksmith by his build—swung the hammer again, but she threw herself sideways, scuttling around the forge.

“Stop!” she said, raising her glove-encased hands. “I’m not stealing anything!”

“Not stealing! You’re using my coals, my forge, and my tools. You cost me an excellent set of tongs and—” His eyes widened, and the hammer dropped to his side. “You’re a girl. What’s a girl doing working at my forge?”

“Look, I’ll pay you for the cost of your tongs and coal.” She shook off one of the gloves and reached toward her pocket. He raised the hammer. “I’m trying to get to my coins.”

“I don’t think so.” He waved his makeshift weapon menacingly. “Take off the other glove and put both your hands on top of your little bald head.”

“You don’t want to do this,” Pira promised. Even without a weapon, she would be able to seriously maim the blacksmith, which would be a shame. Despite his powerful build, he was a friendly-looking fellow, with short dark hair and a freshly shaved face. “I just needed a little help and your shop was already closed.”

His eyes trailed down to the bowl among the coals, and his forehead wrinkled in confusion. “What were you trying to do? Melt down an assassin’s dart?” He shook his head, and his mouth quirked with humor. “Good luck with that.”

“Assassin’s dart? Who makes them? Where do they come from?” She edged toward him slightly, drawing his attention, and he raised his hammer again. “I know it’s copper on the inside, but it’s coated with something I’ve never seen before.”

The blacksmith regarded her over his weapon’s head. “Why do you need to know?”

Pira debated for a moment, biting her bottom lip. What should she say?

“If a girl like you has an assassin’s dart, you’re likely in trouble.” The man waved to the shop’s back door. “Get out.”

“No! A friend . . . a friend of mine was killed. And we . . . I mean . . . I found this dart near him.” She allowed her shoulders to slump.
Men like women who are helpless. Be helpless.
“I want to know who killed him and why.”

“If you have a
friend
who was killed by an assassin, it’s best if you stay out of that business.”

Helpless was not working.

Faster than his eye could follow, Pira’s right hand reached into her left sleeve and drew a throwing dagger. “Look. It’s obvious you know something about assassins. Tell me what I need to know, and I won’t use this on you. And in case you’re thinking of doing something stupid, I have excellent aim.”

His mouth dropped open in stunned surprise. “Are
you
an assassin?”

“Definitely not.”

“I don’t know any women who know how to work a forge, or throw a dagger, or shave their heads for that matter.” His hands dropped to his sides. “Who are you?”

“
I’m
asking the questions.”

“I’ll answer them if you lower your knife.” The blacksmith took a confident step toward the forge. “I’m not stupid enough to assume that’s the only knife on your person, but I’d like to believe that you won’t kill me when we’re done here.”

Blast it. He was likable.
Pira lowered the knife and laid it on the edge of the forge as a promise of peace.

He nodded. “Good enough. I’m Ricketts, by the way.”

“All right.” She put her hands on her hips and waited. “The dart. Tell me about it.”

“Well . . . I don’t know much about assassins, but I’ve heard that dukes and the richer underlords hire them on occasion. To take out a rival or some such.” He motioned at the wall, where similar hammers hung. She nodded permission to put it away. He flipped it in the air, caught it by the head, and slipped it between two pegs.

“Names, specifically?”

“Our own Duke Belem, for one. But you’re right about this.” Ricketts grabbed a set of tongs and picked up the dart from its bowl. “I’d bet my shop that it’s coated in beryllium.”

“I’ve never heard of it.”

“That’s because it’s rare. It’s not minable, that I know of, but is found in streambeds and so forth.” He dunked the dart in a brine wash. It sizzled, and a puff of salty steam wafted across the room. “There’s only one state that has the capability to smelt it: Maringa.”

“And the Duke of Maringa, do you think he’d hire an assassin?”

Ricketts regarded her like she’d said something completely ridiculous. “Where are you from?”

“No questions.” She snatched the tongs from his hand and pulled the dart out of the wash. “I still can’t feel it.”

“It’s light.” His eyebrows drew together. “That’s what you meant, right?”

“Back to the Duke of Maringa,” she deflected, setting the still-hot dart on the worktable. The beryllium gave off no vibrations; it was like it wasn’t there, completely masking the copper underneath. When it had been heated, the bond between the layers loosened enough that she could feel it, but now that it was solid again, it was like one of her senses had been cut off.

A nervous flutter started low in Pira’s belly. If weapons were coated in beryllium, she might not be able to sense them at all. It would take away one of her strengths and weaken her as a fighter—just like Jacaré had done with the wooden sword on the practice field.

“How can you not know about Inimigo? His name is synonymous with ‘butcher’ in our land and
‘Finalreinar’
in his own.”

Reign ender.

“Inimigo was responsible for the last king’s death.” She tried to say it without making it sound like a question.

“And the Ten Years’ War, and the obliteration of Roraima.” Ricketts studied her again, as if looking for a lack of mental acuity, but didn’t find anything but a pretty face and a trim figure.

Roraima, at least, was a name she recognized. She’d slept among the ruins.

“Thank you, Ricketts.” She pulled out her purse and dropped a couple of coins on the edge of the forge and retrieved her dagger.

He picked up the first coin and gasped in surprise. “Where did you get these? They must be ancient. . . .” He looked from the golden disc to Pira and back. “The
cadarço
. I thought it was an odd headband, but you . . . you’re a
Keeper
.”

She flipped the knife into her hand and held it against the blacksmith’s neck. “Do not speak of this to anyone.”

“But—”

“Your silence. Promise it to me now.”

His mouth opened and closed a few times. “You really
could
feel the metal, couldn’t you? That’s part of your magic.”

“Don’t make me cut out your tongue.”

Instead he lowered himself to his knees in front of her. “I’ve never been a believer, and now I’m sorry for that—”

She hit him behind the ear with the butt of her dagger before he could finish his sentence. The blacksmith crumpled to the ground, narrowly missing the edge of the forge.

Pira pushed through the back door and hopped the fence around the yard. The whole way back to the inn, she hoped the information she’d gained would be worth the cost of their exposure.

Chapter 34

Rafi

Rafi dripped wax onto the tiny letter, pressing his father’s sigil ring to seal it.

The guests had finally made their farewells or retired for the evening, but Rafi had to get the missive off to Duke Inimigo before dawn if he wanted the bird to reach Maringa in time.

He rubbed his tired eyes, but it didn’t help. He was exhausted, worn to the bone, and anxious. Having people in his home, strangers and friends alike, always made him feel slightly off-kilter. The constant scrutiny, the whispers, the false smiles, the lurid invitations, and the thinly veiled threats were like pebbles in his shoes. He tried to deal with it all, but eventually it blistered. He suffered it quietly and nursed the irritation in private.

Such was his duty.

The house was silent as he walked to the staircase that led to the bird roost. The pigeons cooed and clucked as he opened the lock on the bamboo cage. He attached the scroll to the bird’s foot before tossing it into the air.

He leaned across the railing, watching till the bird disappeared into the night and long after. From the roof he could see the entire estate, the lands around it, and the Santiago township in the distance. Beyond that were his underlords’ holdings, one in each compass direction. Each duke had four underlords to help oversee their state and divide the territory into manageable parts. Since Santiago was the smallest state, Rafi’s underlords were closer and constantly underfoot.

He rotated in the direction of the Milners’ orchard, wondering if Johanna and her brother had made it safely home. He’d have to warn her about Duke Belem’s interest—or have Dom do it. The girl would probably take the warning more seriously if it came from anyone but Rafi.

Or maybe I should let her cut out Belem’s heart with her little dagger,
he thought. Rafi grinned at the thought of her knife against the man’s double chin.
I wonder where she keeps it in that dress. No sleeves, no pockets. It’d be difficult to fit in a bodice laced so tight—

Stop.

Rafi pushed her out of his mind, headed for his chambers, and nearly broke his neck when he stumbled over the body at the bottom of the stairs.

Chapter 35

Pira

The stable was dark, the hands long abed, by the time Pira and Tex pushed through the doors. It suited their purposes perfectly. No one would be around to witness the four Keepers fleeing Belem in the middle of the night.

Three Keepers,
she mentally corrected. Leão hadn’t returned from his
assignment
with the barmaid yet, and Pira had been forced to gather his things and haul them out of the inn.

The only upside was that the boy hadn’t been around to hear the epic dressing-down she’d received from her brother. It was never pleasant to be reprimanded in front of a subordinate. Especially perfect Leão, who never disobeyed, never made a mistake, never questioned orders.

Pira was still a little bit shocked that he’d agreed to come on this assignment. It was easier to tag Leão as some obedient Council toady than a thinking, calculating member of their mission.

“How long can it possibly take to walk a girl home?” Pira asked as she dropped her saddlebags on her horse’s stall door.

“Quite a while, when you’re young.” Tex wagged his eyebrows at her, which earned him a disgusted glare in return. “Don’t you worry about Leão, though. He’ll find his way back soon enough.”

“He better be grateful when . . .”

“When what?” Tex asked, as her voice trailed off.

She held her finger to her lips and pointed to the loft. She heard the noise again, a giggle and a hushed whisper.

“I told you we’d find Leão soon enough.” Tex cupped his hands around his mouth and yelled, “Boy! Get your bony arse down here. We’re moving out. Now.”

Pira took a quick step back to avoid being smashed by the body that rolled out of the loft.

Leão landed with a cat’s grace, barely making a sound as his feet hit the packed-dirt floor. He straightened, revealing that he was shirtless. Again.

“What’s going on?” Leão asked, oblivious to his state of undress.

Tex smirked as he leaned a shoulder against one of the stable’s supporting beams, looking amused. “I could ask you the same thing. I bet you’ve got a story for me.”

“Nothing happened, sir,” he answered quickly.

Pira looked from Leão’s bare chest to the loft, where a dark-haired girl leaned halfway over the ladder.

“Don’t leave yet,” the trollop crooned, the bodice of her dress tugged aside to reveal one pale shoulder. “We just got started.”

In a minute yo
u’
re going to get started looking for your teeth,
Pira thought.

The stable doors swung inward, and Jacaré entered. Sweat slicked his skin, and he walked with a slight hunch to his shoulders.

Pira’s anger at the barmaid abated, and she opened her mouth to voice her concern. But one scathing look from her brother made it shut with a click.

“Would you please throw down whatever he left up there?” Jacaré asked, the sharpness in his voice reminding Pira of the tongue-lashing she’d received.

A shirt, vest, and a small satchel plummeted down, nearly hitting Pira in the face. She snatched them all before they hit the floor.

“It got hot up there,” Leão explained as Pira shoved his shirt into his bare arms and dropped his saddlebags at his feet.

“I bet it did.” She shook her head and turned away, saddling her horse with quick decisive movements, the tack jingling
. What did you expect? You saw the way she hung on him. What does it matter anyway?

Leão shrugged into his shirt, then helped Miriam out of the loft.

The strumpet leaned against him, running a finger from his chin into his unlaced collar. “I look forward to seeing much, much more of you when you come back through Belem.”

Pira yanked on the girth strap, earning an irritated huff from her horse. She took a deep breath and loosened it a notch, giving the animal an apologetic pat on the flank.

“Jacaré, Miriam says that when the Performers aren’t traveling, they congregate at a camp northeast of Santiago,” Leão explained, his voice sounding slightly hoarse.

“Not that you should go there. I don’t know what business you have with the Performers, but they aren’t welcoming to outsiders,” Miriam said with a delicate shiver. “Some say that they harbor outlaws, assassins, and spies among their ranks. And they’re certainly thieves. Whenever they come to town, houses are burgled, and last time they were here a girl was killed.”

More likely the Performers are easy scapegoats,
Pira thought.

“Is their camp far from the east road?” Jacaré asked.

Miriam shrugged. “I don’t know, but I doubt they can take those wagon houses of theirs far from any path.”

“And they always travel in the wagons?” Jacaré asked.

“Always,” Miriam confirmed.

Pira saw the look Tex and Jacaré exchanged, and the older man offered a subtle nod.

Jacaré had once told her that if you gave Tex a general direction, he could find anything.

As Pira led her horse from its stall, she knew they’d be testing his abilities.